


Sweet Darnell

by Fatale (femme)



Series: This complicated thing we have [9]
Category: White Collar
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-31
Updated: 2013-05-31
Packaged: 2017-12-13 12:09:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/824155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femme/pseuds/Fatale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vests are classy, it could have been worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Darnell

Sweet Darnell  
Neal & Mozzie, Neal/Peter (established background Peter/El/Neal)  
PG  
WC: 630

[Part nine.](http://fatale.livejournal.com/tag/this%20complicated%20thing%20we%20have)

 

 

 

 

“So you’re moving in,” Moz says. “What does that make you, the vest to their suits?”

“That’s a weird analogy,” Neal says.

“Vests are classy, it could have been worse.” Mozzie moves a pawn seemingly at random. “I could have made a remark about tube socks.”

“Stop that train of thought right now.” Neal pushes his white knight to F3.

Mozzie moves his corresponding knight. “I have a housewarming gift for you.”

“Is it illegal?” Neal asks. “Peter has this weird thing about illegal stuff in his house.”

“Depends on what you do with it, I guess,” Moz says. “Your move.”

 

\---

 

“Is this what you want?” Mozzie asks.

Mozzie could be talking about any number of things -- the bishop, the two cups of soy milk sitting on the table next to the chessboard, but Neal knows what he’s referring to, and is seized with intense and immediate knowledge that this is a fucking awful idea. Just rotten. It’s the same feeling he got when he stole the Raphael, the understanding that he was courting his undoing. And look how that turned out.

He reaches out to take a rook and it slips from his numb fingers, clatters to the board loudly and spectacularly awkward.

“Hey,” Mozzie says and presses Neal’s hand flat against the board with his own, sending chess pieces scattering, rolling off the table and into the grass. “I shouldn’t have said it like that, this is good for you.”

“Really?” Neal chokes out, over a rising tide of panic.

“No, It think it’s a really bad idea,” Moz says, “but you seem happy, so.”

Neal takes one deep breath, then another, until he feels his heart slow and feeling creep back into his fingers. “I am. Happy, I mean. I guess. If this is what happiness is.”

Mozzie shrugs, looks down at the board, but doesn’t lift his palm off of Neal’s, applying warm, steady pressure without making eye contact. “Who knows? But what are your other options? Live alone for the rest of your life? Pis-aller, mon frere.”

“The move of last resort?” Neal asks. “That’s what you’ve got for me?”

“It’s just a final move,” Mozzie says, not unkindly, “it doesn’t mean it can’t still win the game.”

“All right,” Neal says with a long, shuddering breath.

“Besides, isn’t it better than not playing at all?”

 

\---

 

Neal dials Peter on his cell phone, waits until he hears him pick up.

“Neal?”

“Uh huh--”

“Is something wrong?”

He sounds worried and Neal rushes to assure him, “No, nothing’s wrong. Uh, Sweet Darnell is moving in with me. So, I guess he’s moving in with you, too.”

There’s silence on the other end for a moment, then Peter says, with terrible and insulting suspicion coloring his voice, “Is Sweet Darnell a stripper?”

“Why would a stripper be moving in with me?” Neal asks. “He was a gift from Moz.”

“Right, Mozzie,” Peter says, sounding tired.

Neal can picture him now, eyes closed, pinching the bridge of his nose, reaching for the Advil he keeps in the desk drawer. His voice may be level, but he can still tell Peter thinks he did or may be about to do something stupid. Neal feels a wave of affection sweep over him, warm and immediate and it makes his voice sound husky, lower than usual.

“Sweet Darnell is a canary,” Neal clarifies, gratified to hear the soft, relieved exhalation over the line.

“Why did Mozzie give you a canary?”

“Taste-tester,” Neal replies.

“Does he think we’re going to poison you?”

No, Neal thinks. He wants to make sure I’m safe, that I’m not alone, that if he can’t be there with me, I’ve got someone purely on my side, even if it is just a bird.

Neal says, “Probably. He _has_ tried your cooking.”

 

 

 

 

The end.

 


End file.
